<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Old Man by flowerflood</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267335">Old Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerflood/pseuds/flowerflood'>flowerflood</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Honestly idk how to tag I'm just picking things to be safe, M/M, No underage stuff happens but to be safe, Soulmate-Identifying Marks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:01:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,011</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerflood/pseuds/flowerflood</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>George always knew he didn't have a soulmate. Until he did.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/George Washington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Old Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Considered expanding on this but tbh I have no energy and am generally depressed and also, nobody will give a rat's ass on this so eh fuck it, amiright?</p><p>So anyways ask me about writing more on this and I absoloutely will because I crave attention and approval since my parents never gave that shit to me.</p><p>Merry Christmas.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>George would never have a soulmate.</p><p>He would never have a soulmate and he'd known that when he was a child and, as children do, scribbled on his arm, in big, bold letters and nobody had replied. </p><p>"I am George", He had written, and in retrospect, he, as his soulmate, might also not have replied to that simple line. It was plain, it was simple, and it was not necessarily notable, yet George remembered it clear as day.</p><p>How old had he been when this happened? Five, six? Maybe seven. He wasn't sure, but he was sure that any child at that age would have been confused by their soulmate not replying, not even acknowledging the attempt to establish contact. </p><p>His parents had sat him down, well, his mother had sat him down, his father wasn't to be concerned much with unimportant business, such as finding his maybe seven year old's soulmate, and she had explained to him that some soulmates are younger than their partner. </p><p>Little George, even at a young age already smart, had asked, why his soulmate's parents wouldn't reply for their child, if they were still so young. His mother hadn't answered that question. Her reply had been, "How about you go outside and help your father and brother with the garden? Yes?"</p><p>He had done that. He had helped his father and brother with the garden, and when he was older he started helping them with the estate and when he finally grew up, he became part of the family business, just as much as both of them.</p><p>Never did George recieve a note on his skin, not even an accidental splash of ink on his fingers. Nothing. </p><p>He had known that he didn't have a soulmate when  he was a child, he had known when he was a teenager, he had always known. <i>Always.</i></p><p> </p><p>And it hurt when George turned twenty and, even though in his youth he had still tried and written multiple times, some of which he couldn't even remember anymore, his skin stayed clear of any marks of a potential soulmate. There was nothing, not even a sign that they didn't want anything to do with him.</p><p>So, missing any hope one might still wish for at this point of their life, George gave up on the idea of a soulmate. He decided he didn't have one, as he had known forever, and that he would quit searching for one. </p><p>He enlisted in the army and got his regiment's number tattooed on his shoulder.</p><p>Little did he know that, in that same year, when he was twenty, finally, a baby with the same number on his shoulder was born. His name was Alexander and his mother told him never to contact his soulmate. Alexander didn't listen to that for jackshit.</p><p> </p><p>The first time George noticed some writing on his arm, he was twentysix and sitting at his desk. His sleeves were rolled up and the small, scribbled heart was clearly visible on his forearm. </p><p>It looked like it was drawn by a child and the thought made George so sick that he almost threw up on his legal documents. Instead, he managed to make it to the bathroom just in time. This couldn't have been what his mother meant when she said that some soulmates were younger than their partners. It couldn't have been.</p><p>He almost threw up again when he looked at his arm again and saw a scribbled 'salut!' next to the heart. A little French boy, the writing didn't let any doubt in his soulmate being just that. A child.</p><p>George wore his sleeves down for the rest of the summer. He didn't even consider making an attempt at replying, not with his soulmate being a little kid. They were better off. <i>He</i> was better off.</p><p> </p><p>George learned that his soulmate was stubborn in the coming years. Again and again, he had small, scribbled notes on his skin, and again and again they invited him to tell his soulmate something about himself. If not, George was simply left to reading what his soulmate told him about himself, sometimes in French, sometines in English; it depended on the day, really.</p><p>When he was thirtytwo, the lighthearted little notes and doodles stopped. There was a single 'help' written on the back of his hand one day. </p><p>George ignored it. </p><p>He also ignored the 'I hate you' on the back of that same hand two years later. Maybe he wrote it on the back of his hand so it would feel like a backhanded slap to his soulmate. George didn't know, since he didn't write back.</p><p> </p><p>With age, George settled and decided he stopped caring. He had done his fair share of caring about his soulmate; although he never responded, he had done his share of caring whether they existed. </p><p>He had to stop calling him 'they' in his head. His name was Alexander, he had written that, and, of course, George remembered.</p><p>When George found the tiny tattoo saying 'fuck you' on his hip when he was thirtysix, he didn't appreciate it to say the least. Actually, he woke up with the sting of the tattoo being punched into his skin with a needle in the middle of the night. </p><p>The next morning, he wrote, in his usual neat and small handwriting, with a pen that he knew could be washed off easily, <i>"Are you serious?"</i></p><p>His soulmate took barely seconds to write back, but that wasn't all that positive, considering what he wrote. "Fuck off, old man." Appeared in small, almost impossible to read writing. How the hell did this kid go through school with handwriting like that, George asked himself. Nevermind the bad attitude.</p><p>They broke off writing at that, but George couldn't help but note the change of tone between the little heart and the last message Alexander wrote him. He couldn't help but think that maybe Alexander wasn't only disappointed in him as his soulmate, but something else must also have happened. Something that wasn't George's fault at all.</p><p> </p><p>After that, tattoos started appearing on his skin, more and more. Maybe it was because Alexander had caught on to this being a way to get George to notice him, since it was hard <i>not</i> to notice him when flowers started appearing on his neck in the middle of an important meeting concerning the entire law firm, the pain knocking the wind out of George's lungs. </p><p>He had to leave Alexander that the tattoos looked good. Most of them, at least. Most of them, meaning the ones that didn't include profanity, genitalia and generally just themes George didn't want on his body. </p><p>At some point, a frame was added to surround the number on his shoulder and call more attention to it. His soulmate never tried to cover that one up. </p><p>George wished he could see his soulmate's body for the first time. See his body and his tattoos, so that he might appreciate the one all of these tattoos were actually made for. It made him feel creepy, remembering that he was still, as far as George was concerned, a kid. </p><p> </p><p>All that flew out the window when, when George was thirtynine, Alexander wrote again. This time, though, it was different. </p><p>"I'm nineteen and I live in New York." </p><p>The next part was in French and, embarrassingly enough, George had to Google what it meant. Even more embarrassingly, it turned out to mean 'do you want to fuck me, old man?'. </p><p>So George planned a business trip to New York, wrote an address and a time on his arm for Alexander to note, and easy as that, their first meeting was planned. </p><p>George didn't actually want to fuck Alexander. No, that wasn't his intention and to make that clear, the address was a café in uptown Manhattan, close to where George had an apartment, but not close enough for it to seem as if he wanted to take Alexander home after drinking a latte. </p><p>Alexander seemed to pick up on this, because his look as he walked in was skeptic to say the least. </p><p>George had doubted the tattoos on his body could look good on anyone for a long time, but he was proven wrong when Alexander walked in, hands in the pockets of his jeans, tanktop revealing his full sleeve on the left side and the few tattoos he had on his right shoulder, as well as the tattoos on his neck.</p><p>He recognized George by the tattoos on his neck, despite the fact that he was wearing a suit and tie and most of the tattoos he had earned through his soulmate were covered up. </p><p>The first thing he said when he approached the older man was, "This doesn't seem like a place you would take someone half your age to to fuck and leave them." He raised one red haired brow. "And shockingly, really fucking shockingly, I don't even mind."</p><p>George was fucked. The kid was cocky, snarky and understandably pissed at him, but George thought that, even though he didn't understand why, it was right that <i>this one</i> was his soulmate. It felt right. </p><p>"I'm not looking to fuck you here." "Oh, good, cool, 'cause I'm not that into exhibitionism. I understand it, y'know, took a few college classes on kinks and all that, 'cause I was already there, so might as well, right? but it's never been my thing. Fucking older men? That, I am cool with. Totally."</p><p>Alexander spoke just a little too quickly and a little too loudly and George couldn't decide if it was annoying or charming. Some people seemed to be glancing at them, but once they both had a coffee in front of themselves, they were good.</p><p>And as George wrote so many years ago, he now said,</p><p>"I am George Washington." </p><p>Except this time, he did get a response. </p><p>"Alexander Hamilton." </p><p>His soulmate offered a hand and George shook it with a stern expression. </p><p>"...You said you took a few college classes, right? Do you go to college?" George politely asked, raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip. </p><p>Alexander nodded and started talking. And damn him, could Alex talk. It was as if he never went out of air, George thought.</p><p>"Yeah, Columbia. It's cool, I got a scholarship that pays most of my shit, since, well, y'know, I've got no parents to pay all of it and went through this hurricane when I was a kid, so it kinda seems that the government decided that maybe they should take it easy on me, right? But I think they're making a huge mistake, considering I'm a pain in the ass and now they've made the decision to fund me becoming a lawyer. Crazy, right?"</p><p>He didn't really wait for an answer. George decided he liked how much he talked. </p><p>"Yeah, so I wanna do law, be a lawyer, help some people, change things. I write a lot, talk and argue a lot, so it fits, I guess." Alex gives a shrug and George does nothing, but internally agrees. As a lawyer, he can imagine Alexander would do well. With considerable training and education, of course.</p><p>Alexander went on talking for forever, even though it didn't feel like that at all. George was suprised when he looked away from his handsome face for once, stopped counting the freckles on his cheeks as Alex talked about his friend, Lafayette, the only person whom he really still spoke French with, and looked out the window to see complete darkness.</p><p>"Fuck." Alex hissed under his breath. "Fucking shit, I..." "Forgot about the time?" Alex mutely nodded.</p><p>George paid for the coffee, tipped the staff a generous amount and returned to find an empty table. He was slightly confused and disappointed, to be frank, but when he looked down at his right arm that evening, he saw Alexander's messy writing.</p><p>There was a number and beneath it, it said, "Next time I'll pick the place, old man."</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>